My body does not belong to me anymore, 
surrendered long ago to pain.
I wonder how to feel that life is a gift meant to be loved,
do they know 
I cannot see beyond the very next moment? and
I am waiting in the dark
with severed wings, nowhere to hide. 
the vultures circle where I lay - 
I claw my way to standing, 
but I can’t feel where my feet touch the ground.
I tried and tried long ago to reach the clouds,
to be what they told me I should be - 
heavy with grief and shame, 
don’t you think I’ve tried to let it go?
no one ever tells the tale of one who fails,
only the strength and perseverance of my kind.
maybe I was never meant to be here at all. 
who would dare choose me – a broken thing.
return me to the time before I lost it all,
back when I could fly – 
steadfast and fearless, 
I thought the horizon would go on forever. 
even when I couldn’t reach the place the others did, 
I didn’t have this pain – 
I was happy then. and
now I am simply waiting for the fall,
they’ll find me there alone,
maybe then, 
my spirit will find its way to the clouds again.

I may never know how this story will end,
I wonder now,
if I had left the best part of me down
in the trenches of the sea floor,
as if that would keep me safe
from the darkness that gathered on the horizon. but
I remember those days, 
still clinging to my essence,
filling my breath with life,
woven into every fiber like a second skin,
I was forever changed. 

– yet still – 
the darkness grew, and 
then came the storms I could not control,

…despair, grief, melancholy, woe…

pulled at any strength I had left, and  
became a weight I could no longer carry,
in desperation I began to dig. 
I told myself that I could keep it safe hidden deep inside, 
but the storm up there was still waiting for me, and 
the deeper I dug, 
the faster the walls were caving in, and
the harder it became to crawl from the abyss – and
I knew, I could not keep it all together – 

I had to let it go. 

I made it out, but 
not unscathed. 
memories ruminate in my blood like a fever dream, and  
when I turn to face the raging seas, 
wondering if any of it was real,
if my heart was still there, 
somehow trapped in the trenches beneath the waves. 
I may never know how this story will end, but 
I see a glimmer now, 
a faint light in the darkness ahead, and
that will have to be enough.

In my area (northeastern United States), climate change began the moment settlers stepped foot on our shores. First the plagues that killed entire generations. Then came deforestation and blight. Animals were slaughtered in droves or driven out all together. Within just a few years, the wild, yet faithfully tended to landscape was forever changed. The seasons grew harsher. Winters were harsh and deadly. The ground was giving way, swamps were drained. Invasive plants and livestock destroyed native growth - they were determined to conquer the land in every way possible; how very American of them.

The feats of engineering were huge, entire cities were built on manufactured land - the first of its kind on American shores, a concept borrowed from European influence. But now the news shows us how these places are quite literally sinking - once a generation floods are becoming more and more frequent as the sea levels continue to rise, the shoreline retreating and taking everything with it. Lifetimes ago, a nomadic nation could withstand this storm, quietly retreating with respect to the earths fury. Modern man hasn’t listened to the Earth in far too long - and this piece is written for them. It won’t be long now…

It won’t be long now
‘til the land sinks back into the sea – 
a defeat generations in the making
you spent years conquering her lands
playing god against her strength, believing every
victory was her bending to your will, and 
now you are her king.

she has tried to tell you in so many ways, but 
her power will return, and she will show us all
the years of taking more than we give will end.  
she will leave us in centuries of darkness 
until we remember the truth:

the land never belonged to us at all.

With winter slowly creeping in
we stroll gently down the darkening paths – 
frosted in the early morning light 
long gone is the green and brightly colored roses,
now is the time to count the buds that never bloomed
maybe in the coming spring we could try again.
though the garden that we planted
those years ago had been filled with love – 
intention was fleeting and
somewhere along the way 
the further we dug, the deeper our secrets became
our roots tangled and
lost – unable to even reach towards the light – and
intention was lost, our garden obligation and regret.
the longer our roots remained in the dark 
those buds that never bloomed became a reminder of 
everything we lacked - 
some gardens grow to be their own Eden and others, paradise lost. 
still, we walk, hand in hand, 
never saying what we should, and
we have learned to live with the buds that never bloomed. 

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years later I travel by,
sensing the pain that lingers in your essence,
haunted whispers through the trees become
a masterpiece of darkness in the light.
beneath my feet I feel
the very moment you were lost 
suspended in time, 
your shadows left in its path,
I see the terror plain as day
and wonder now,
what it was that made you so afraid?

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My dear Jean,
I think you’d like it here – 
I see purple flowers blossoming on the hill,
and sparrows flit about, singing merrily.
the sun rises over the river and 
there is a break in the trees,
so you’ll never miss it. 
I see swans here in the spring, 
there is a nest somewhere near – 
I know they were always your favorite.
when the sun is high, and 
the breeze is lively, everything sparkles
just like a magic trick – oh you’d be so pleased. and
for night, my dear Jean, when I cannot be here, 
I leave this angel to watch over you – 
she is in your likeness, 
I made quite sure.
when others walk by they too may be comforted in knowing
a sweet angel watches over their children too. 
I know you are not alone but,
be brave, my dear Jean. 
my heart longs to hold you close in my arms,
your shining eyes before me, 
I pray it is never too long before I see you again.

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I remember this from long ago
at first it’s strange and overgrown,
twisted ivy on the vine, the cautious steps I take,
unsure if this is the way.
but with every turn, the familiar feeling grows.
there’s a rock I know, and then the softest fern, 
I think it’s coming back.
every gentle graze along the grasses at my feet,
the feeling grows, but I’m not quite there – 
I hear the birds in song, faded in the distance
	hurry, hurry, it’s down the way.
the deeper I walk into the trees, the closer I am,
I breathe the scent of sweet cedar and pine – 
and the feeling grows.
it’s quiet now, save for the birds, determined
to lead the way and finally – 
just when I thought all hope was lost
here I am – emerging triumphant in the sun 
and there, the brush of your hand upon my skin,
tears falling as the feeling grows – 
         this is the place I know. 

There is a place I go for walks near me that had always been instant connection, words and ideas pouring out of me I often called some of my older poetry “parking lot poems” because they flowed like the rivers and I had to finish them in the parking lot. Most of my first book was written there actually. I only get this immediate connection to the land feeling in a very select few trails in Rhode Island.

I had never been to Weetamoo Woods before - but I felt something within those first few steps - like I had been there before except it was all new to me. Almost immediately there is a hill, covered with rocks and boulders each one bigger than the last and there is a ghostly tree atop the hill staring down at me and I knew. This was a place where my soul softened and I could imagine anything in the world.

This piece is a direct result of stepping into an old cellar hole to take a picture. I don’t know who built on this land - but I think I needed to tell their story.

What is left of the blood that was spilled,
the years that passed – it was all for naught,
for time has taken back the land – 
a ghostly hollow under trampled path – 
it’s all gone now.
they’ll never see the way the morning sun shone through our windows,
the laughter of our babies as they grew,
we planted a garden filled with roses,
a memory of the place we’d left behind.
       we were happy then.

and then came deaths cold embrace – 
suddenly the laughter stopped,
the roses fell,
and in one long winter I lost it all.
I know that they are free
in the kingdom of heaven, welcomed with open arms.
but the blood that was spilled to build this land has held me here,
fated to be a witness to the future of what could have been.
their song is long forgotten now,
the walls that kept our children warm, rotting, return to the earth,
the stones we placed so carefully in shambles now,
the laurels green, twisting ivy going ‘round and ‘round,
taking retribution for my sins.
the trees now cover the sun, and I am there,
underneath the shadows,
on a mid-summers eve, 
the breeze whispers the sweet scent of a memory,
her roses dear,
I can remember the happy days.
now as I remain tethered to this place, 
I watch what could have been go by,
only the curious few pause in wonder at the wreckage I once loved – 

       listen to the wind, 
I will tell you again and again. 

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I do not see anything as black and white…
there is always a moment
paused on the horizon
when I am able to see:
the embrace of every layer, shift in texture, colors intertwined
the infusion of light and dark,
nature’s paint engrained into every fracture 
that meets my eyes - 
I am a witness to it all.
and I wonder how anyone could ever watch the sun as it rises
and not believe that they are witnessing a miracle. 

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I remember the day that I was born - 
an eager sprout, I couldn’t wait to be as strong and tall as my brothers,
I would be the most beautiful one, the finest specimen. 
but that life was not meant to be, and I didn’t know why – 
as I grew, each day harsher than the last, I was weak and sickly
the others are so strong around me in a way I couldn’t be. 

for so long I stood alone, bending against the pain, believing I would fall
and then I saw her there below the twisted bough and she said:
	rest my brother, rest upon my shoulders.
I protested first, saying it would never work but she insisted – 
	I have the strength of a millennia beneath me, 
	their foundation keeps me from falling away and so 
	I will do the same for you. 

and so I rested my roots upon her, and the years passed easily.
I grew and grew, wrapping myself around her jagged edges, 
she had a softness now and together we became one in the same,
like I had grown from inside her somehow,
and maybe I did, for had she not offered the fortitude that I could not gather,
I may have fallen like my brothers.
we weathered the storms, together, the seasons changed 
in understanding, life went on for us both and I await the day when I can say:
	rest my brother,
	I have the strength of a millennia beneath me.

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You healed yourself somehow, I said, 
marveling at a new-grown bough.

she smiled in return, gathered up her breath and then she said:

I am not unlike the other creatures of the world,
cut off one limb and two more may grow.
losing it was easy in comparison - 
it was the pain of healing and regrowing, that changed everything about me.
creating life from the wound, it waited, open, weeping, 
and then the torment came.
I found courage first, learning to live with
so much anguish,
embracing pain like an old friend, I couldn’t let it go - 
every excruciating moment I thought would be my last,
my breath became a weight, the very ground I am rooted in, a prison,
in the darkest nights of winter I languished - 
frozen from the outside in, and the writhing only in my mind, 
unable to move – I was so afraid. 
but somehow, the limb you see there – is now grown, 
I am accustomed to the pain, someday, I won’t even feel it anymore.
it doesn’t look the same as the old one – hasn’t quite gotten its color yet – 
but it is there, it is grown – 
and I, I am still here. 

I press my hand against her pain,
I feel her sadness and her strength – 
and then I say:
I hope one day, to be so strong, just like you.

Lately when I have been out hiking, trees have been inspiring me. This piece was brought to life after seeing a cut trunk that regrew. I wondered if there could have been any pain to the tree during this process, to fight silently against a fresh wound and grow despite it all. I live with so much pain, I know exactly how it is to lay in bed so perfectly still while my body is burning from the inside out. It’s a strange feeling - I can picture myself writhing, screaming, crying, fighting - and yet I’m laying there silently just willing it all to stop.

I hope one day to be strong ✨

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I pause to watch it all unfold
the dance between life and its inevitable decay. 
gone is the green of the earth,
it’s brighter now when gold appears,
glowing as it clings to the final moments.
I feel it too,
the ache of holding on, torn between
desperately seeking solace, to exist without pain,
and wanting to survive, 
I don’t believe both could ever be true.
does the earth fall to slumber peacefully,
knowing she will wake again,
or does she mourn the life she could have been? 
and I wonder, if the first time she closed her eyes to sleep – 
was she afraid that sleep would be her last?

There are so many tiny moments in nature that speak to me. One morning while I was walking, I took a few pictures of golden ferns that had once been green. The scene was a gradient gold, with many ferns turning brown before they fade away. It’s beautiful - to see how faithfully the earth sleeps and then wakes again in the spring. I came away from that moment wondering if the earth knew she would wake again - or did she mourn herself somehow? I write so much about the seasonal changes, I think I see myself in my surroundings, my very own decay. Nature is my favorite muse. ✨

The day the rains came it was already too late.
years had passed since the sky had wept.
the ground, long given up that something would change,
cracked and rubble, dust storming in every direction, 
fissures grew overnight – the earth could no longer hold onto anything with
remnants of grass and trees demise,
a single spark could burn it all to ash.
even the sun grew weary of her light,
and under the starless skies you could hear the mothers weeping 
for so long it had been.
it was a thirst settling deep into our bones, marrow running dry
no blood to let, we are shells of what we once were,
trembling in a trance, desperately searching for a drop of anything and
so the day the rains came – 
it was already too late.
first it was the wind, blowing in from the east, and then the sky
blackened, enraged, churned across the horizon
like nothing we had ever seen, and as the sky fell – 
unleashing years of pent-up sorrow, spilling out of every pore 
torrents of pain and loneliness, 
all its fury in one long and haggard breath
and the earth could not contain it all – 
let go the world now, 
what was left is washed away,
to think, the rain had come to save us.

Two things inspired this while I was out walking. One: New England hit a new low in rain levels this summer, rivers and ponds are dried up and it will be interesting to see how the fall colors come in or not. Two: I read the book “The Four Winds” by Kristin Hannah. Her writing is spectacular and in this book she does an amazing job of describing the weather and aftereffects of the Dust Bowl in the Texas panhandle area. I was so thirsty reading the book - I strive to be a writer of her caliber.

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How is it that we were fated to be bound for an eternity - 
conjoined from the moment we were born.
she a light in the dark, 
wherever she sets her gaze grows 
to meet her stately boughs, 
and I, the bitter fruit, 
settled in her shadows,
ever watching what befalls the others 
after too long in this world.
she should be afraid, 
but I’m the only one who digs further into the earth
seeking strength I didn’t have to keep the others away. 
her bountiful limbs rejoice as they grow taller around us.
and I lament the change, for now they stand too close, and we’ve lost
the ocean breeze, but every day she sings – 
we are stronger together.

her evergreen hues deeper and deeper still, 
in every season we are faced with unrelenting strife, yet she shines
and I, the faded recluse, tried to pull away, 
but she holds me fast while I watched the others
twisted and bending to stand against the elements -  
and still she blessed them for their company. 

I wonder what it would be like, 
to stand alone along the shore, or in a meadow, bright and tall,
all I’ve ever known now, the dark familiar woods.
she is still the light we carry through many years,
her life a gift to our surroundings and I, the parasitic twin,
cracked and crumbling, a sickness and a shame,
but even after all I’d lost, she never let me go. 

and one day, came what could have been my demise,
I admit I was afraid to see what was left of me there on the ground,
I closed my eyes and waited for it all to burn – 
but she held on and said: look there, you are still here.

and she was right, she was always right – 
for while I had been waiting to leave the earth forever,
the sweetest green I’d ever seen had found its way to my fallen limb,
trailing ivy, tufted moss, and even flowers grew under a beam of light,
life teemed under shattered bark, I could feel their heartbeats pulsing
in my roots and there began the next part of my journey – 
her, the strength to hold me close and the others standing tall,

and I, the giver of life after death. 

One day, I was out hiking and I saw a tree with two trunks; as normal as this sounds, for I’ve seen it so many times, but this time - one trunk was sickly looking, haggard, and crumbling. And then I saw another tree, with two trunks and it was almost the same. One trunk looked okay and the other was not. And suddenly the line: the parasitic twin and the word: conjoined came into my mind and didn’t leave. I wandered the trails wondering how trees felt about growing two trunks and if it meant they were two separate beings or one, and I thought maybe they were going side by side and realizing they could have been two separate beings. This is probably too many words to say… I have a wild imagination. Pictured are a few trees of inspiration. I have a few more pieces in my secret life of trees poems coming up. 🌳

The scent of honeysuckle hangs in the air,
languid, trailing on the vine 
of a mid-summer morning,
and I wonder where I’d be, if I hadn’t lost my way.

memories flickering through my mind,
fleeting thoughts and faded dreams – 
did any of it happen at all?
I didn’t know I was supposed to remember,
and I want to go there again – 
immerse myself in those moments
so I can keep them closer still,
but all I hear now in the silence, 
is the beating of my heart.
somewhere in the breeze, it comes to me -

time – is not a sentient being, 
it does not know what you seek to find.
with every breath of time - 
it becomes a spiral, curling slowly, winding tightly, 
never returning to the same moment,
or the place you want to be. 
time, the one gift we have that we cannot exchange
they’ve tried to sell us time,
claiming we can take it back, reverse the loss, 
more time to give to others,
but something is always taken in return.
a very human existence to be afraid of time.
but there’s a chance - 
to find your way back to the beginning, 
your essence flowing into new life, 
a softness breathing into the earth 
the spiral continues, weaving round and round,
and you may live again.
yet those who are hard – unyielding, 
their brittle bones ground to dust, only to drift away
the spiral is broken; their time is gone. 
and time has brought me here in this very moment -
I was never meant to remember it all,
they'll travel with me still,
my conscious alive and well, and
I yearn now for the softness I can feel on my skin - 

when suddenly I am back again,
honeysuckle sweet, on a mid-summer day,
tinged with the subtle scent of earth,
and I am left to wonder – 
did any of this happen at all? 

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The storm inside my heart
beats like waves pounding on the shore.
a howling wind echoes the darkness in my soul
for I am lost - 
every step sinks into sand, 
haggard and worn, and
I can’t tell if it’s the ocean air or tears
falling from my eyes.
midnight chill sweeps in, 
clouded memories behind me
shrouded now in grief, 
I don’t know how I got here – 
but nobody knows
this place will become my last.
I imagine the shore on a sunny day,
and though I can see their faces 
searching everywhere but here, 
my moment has arrived.
I didn’t tell them what hardened my resolve, 
this burden is mine alone and 
I carry it with me to the sea, 
it’s what will hold me down. 
arms wide open, 
free in the oceans embrace,
I can feel it now – 

the last of all my sorrows given to the dark.

I started this piece months ago, hastily typed into the notes section of my phone on a cold winter morning and I finished it today with thoughts of the young men in my community who left his world by way of the ocean.

As someone who has struggled with suicidal ideation for so long, I know how it feels to be in so much pain. I know there are times when the thought of death becomes a freedom. For me, my children have become my light in the dark; they are the reason I work so hard to be better.

I have a son, and I see how boys can learn to hide their feelings, a cruel societal standard that hurts more than it helps. As a mother, I grieve with every mother (parent) who has lost their child to suicide. I don’t have any helpful hints, or miracle cures besides unconditional love. I am going to love my son no matter what, stay engaged with his life, and pray he comes to me if he needs me.

Love your children with all your heart ✨

Somewhere in the fairy glen
under leaves that glisten in the sun,
the dance for spring has now begun.
our shadows soft, the cedars whisper in the breeze
and birds croon a melody.
with a carpet of pine to catch our steps,
their branches reach wide as they beg for more.
the fairies awaken from the laurels, 
their sleepy little wings dance in the morning dew.
beaming through twisted vines and green grass lines,
the sun delights, and the fairies call
for the butterflies and bees,
their secrets nestled in the clover –
we await the first rites of spring
when all will gather and celebrate the bloom of another year.

She is dressed in shades of green
transparent, shining in the sun.
for years, they tore her down – 
wilted tendrils on the ground –  just
a graveyard for her dreams, 
all her layers sinking deeper in decay.
then, rising from below – 
quiet first, a drumming sound – a 
frequency that changes everything and now
she is in control.
tall and proud, she stands with all her strength, 
her very core – a reclamation of life.
green, bold, shining anew in all her splendor – she will be
the reason others do the same.

We were lovers once,
under the cover of the moon.
     -she is our silent witness.
we felt the pull 
of gentle hands
cupped around our hearts,
we let our souls dance free.
cloaked in the night, 
every breath a dream
     -she asks only to be seen.
but when darkness wanes 
on the horizon,
the light becomes a place 
we cannot hide.
I wake, 
and suddenly there,
it’s as though 
we didn’t exist at all. 
     -the mere whisper of a reverie

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I have traveled the endless seas,
scaled the highest peaks,
and lost myself to far off lands - 
with no map to guide,
no one to find me,
I am in search of something - 
everything
anything
that ever could compare 
to the way my heart quickens
softens
burns 
when I’m with you.

a tragic tale of make believe – 
or a love story for the ages?

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